Didi
I walk down the corridor, passing Dodds’s room, and note that my heart has started beating extra fast and I’m really nervous. I don’t know why. I wasn’t this nervous when I was at Zac’s, the memory of which still makes me blush.
Walker’s door is open and I hesitate a beat, taking a deep breath before walking over, my hand already raised to knock. My arm drops to my side. He’s not there. The room’s empty. Maybe he’s still in the gym. The image of him on the rowing machine flashes suddenly into my mind and I have to shake it away.
“Damn it . . .”
I jump. The door to the en-suite bathroom flies open and Walker appears. He’s wearing just a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, and he’s holding a razor in one hand. He has shaving foam half covering his beard, and blood is trickling down his neck. My gaze drops from his face to his chest and my mouth falls open.
“Who’s there?” he asks.
I drag my eyes from his rock-solid abs with difficulty.
“Um, it’s me, Didi,” I stammer.
His expression changes, softens. Or maybe I’m imagining it.
“Hey,” he says.
It’s disconcerting. The bandages are off—I was taken by surprise when I saw him in the gym earlier; I found myself staring at him—and he’s looking straight at me as if he can see me.
“You need a hand?” I ask and immediately regret it. I remember what happened the last time I offered to help.
“No,” he says, and I nod to myself and start to leave, feeling disappointment welling up and trying to brush it away.
“Actually, yeah,” he calls out.
I turn back around.
“I do. Really I need eyes, but I’ll take a hand.” He frowns. “You still there?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, taking a step into the room. “You trying to shave?”
“Yeah,” he says, pointing at the blood on his neck. “Trying and failing. I cut myself.”
“Here.” I step toward him and take the razor from his hand, but then find myself suddenly overwhelmingly flustered. We’re standing so close, and he’s half naked—I’m assuming fully naked beneath the towel—and his chest fills my vision.
“Um, should we go back in the bathroom?” I finally manage to stammer.
He turns and bumps me with his arm. “Sorry,” he says.
“No worries,” I mumble and stand aside to let him feel his way into the bathroom.
I stare at his back. Holy shit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as ripped in my life. He has broad shoulders knotted with muscle, and perfect, smooth, tanned skin. On the back of his right shoulder there’s a tattoo of what looks like a sword with some Latin script through it, but I can’t read the words from where I am.
“Should I sit? Would that be easier?” he asks when we’re in the bathroom.
“Um, yeah,” I say. “Why don’t you sit on the toilet?”
He does, and now I’m confronted once again with his chest, which, close up, is every bit as solid and defined as his back. The only thing that mars his skin is an angry, raised scar just down from his shoulder. I have to stop myself from reaching out and running my fingers over it, and— I catch sight of myself in the mirror, flushed and with my jaw hanging open, and frown angrily, ramming my mouth shut. Thank God he’s blind and can’t see me gawking like a schoolgirl.
I distract myself by filling the basin with hot water, and then I take a corner of the towel, wet it, and wipe off the trail of blood down his neck.
“Sorry,” I say when his body tenses.
He laughs under his breath. “It’s fine. I’ve had a lot worse than a shaving cut.”
Right. Of course.
I spray the shaving foam into my palm, then I kneel down in front of him and start applying the foam to his face, aware that my hands are shaking a little and hoping he doesn’t notice. Neither of us says anything. It feels weirdly intimate, and I wonder for a second if this is something I should be doing. I mean, does this breach some patient–doctor boundary? But I’m not his doctor. And he’s not technically my patient. I push the thought away. I can’t exactly stop now that he’s half covered in shaving foam.
Resting back on my haunches to wipe my hands on a towel, I take the opportunity to study him. His eyes are gray-green and beautiful, framed with the kind of thick black lashes that it takes me three layers of mascara and an eyelash curler to achieve.
I knew he was good-looking—the bandages couldn’t hide that fact—but I didn’t realize he was this good-looking. It’s the eyes that do it, ironically enough. Not just their color, which is striking on its own, but something about the sadness in them. When I look at Walker, I see someone physically strong, fit and capable, but when I look into his eyes, I see someone hurting, someone vulnerable, someone in pain. It gives me a jolt—the sharpness of the contrast—and it makes my heart bruise.
Zac is beautiful—but boyish with it. Walker is the complete opposite. Though they’re the same age, twenty-four, you could never, ever call Walker a boy. He’s fully, one hundred percent man. He’s well over six foot, whereas Zac is about five eight. And though Zac works out, Walker’s physique is more than just sculpted, it’s like he’s hewn from rock. I muse on their differences a little more. Zac is charming and flirtatious, always smiling and easy in conversation, whereas Walker’s gruff and silent a lot of the time. But there’s a quiet confidence about him that I like. I get the feeling that he’s never trying to impress anyone. If anything, he’s trying to keep people at a distance.
Why am I comparing the two of them? I shake my head and grimace to myself. Walker’s a patient. I need to be professional. These thoughts are about as professional as a lap dance.
“Okay,” I say, “let’s do this.” I grasp the razor.
“You done this before?” Walker asks.
I pause with the razor halfway to his throat. I’m a pro at shaving my legs. How much harder can this be? “Um, yeah,” I say.
His eyebrow arches, but he lets it lie.
“Hold still,” I tell him, taking his chin firmly in one hand. I start slowly shaving his right cheek.
He holds still.
The only sound is the scrape of the razor and the splash of water as I wash off the blade. It requires concentration. But after a while the silence gets to me.
“I saw you in the gym,” I say. I’m pretty sure that Dodds caught me staring and said something to him, so I may as well admit to it.
“Yeah,” he says. “I figured I should get back into shape.”
Get back into shape?
“Are you doing the triathlon?”
The edge of his mouth quirks up into a smile but his eyebrows draw together. “Who told you that?”
“No one. I just heard Sanchez say he was doing it. So are you doing it too?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
“You are?” I’m surprised, for some reason.
He nods at me.
“That’s great. Now hold still.” I move to his top lip, trying not to focus on it or on his mouth, though this close it’s hard not to.
“How are you getting on with the books?” I ask quickly to distract myself.
“Good,” he says, trying not to move his lips. “I’m listening to Misery.”
“The Stephen King?”
He nods, and I tighten my grip on his jaw and move the razor to his left cheek. He smiles. He has a dimple on this side.
“Did you get to the part where she cripples him to stop him from leaving?” I wince. “Oh . . . sorry.” God, I keep putting my foot in my mouth.
Walker laughs. “No. It’s okay. Don’t say sorry. I’m so tired of that word.”
“Sor—” I clamp my mouth shut before I can finish saying it again. “I’ll just shut up,” I mumble.
“No, don’t do that either.”
A half smile, half smirk pulls the edge of his mouth up. I start on his neck, accidentally flicking some shaving foam onto his chest and having to reach for the towel to wipe it up.
He says nothing as I run the towel across his chest trying not to stare. I glance at the scar on his shoulder. It looks like a shrapnel wound. Something tugs harshly on my insides. What are the scars on the inside like? Are they just as bad? And how do you heal those ones when you can’t even see them? I guess that’s a therapist’s job and I should know how, but I don’t.
I pick up the razor and start shaving him again.
“Um . . . you know,” he says, “it’s better if you shave downward.”
“What?”
His hand comes up and circles my wrist. He covers my hand with his own and then guides the razor downward. “Like this.”
“Oh,” I say, swallowing hard.
He still hasn’t let go of my hand. I try it myself. “Like this?”
He lets go. “Yeah. Otherwise it causes razor burn.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say.
He shakes his head as if to say don’t apologize.
My heart has started beating triple-time and my hand shakes as I finish off shaving his neck. I need to get a grip. When I’m done, I stand aside and let him wash his face.
“How do I look?” he says, turning to me. There’s a sardonic smile on his face.
“Good,” I say. Really good. “Wait.” I snatch the towel from his hand and dab at a fleck of shaving foam by his ear. “There,” I say.
His hand comes up to take the towel and our fingers touch and stay there for a beat too long. My breathing hitches, then speeds up. I resist the urge I have to stroke my other hand down his newly-shaved cheek.
There’s a look in his eye now—confusion overlaying the sadness. His head cocks slightly to one side. I pull my hand away and just then the bathroom door swings wide open.
“Hello? . . . Oh.”
I spin around. My dad is standing in the doorway. He blinks a few times and frowns as he takes in the fact that I’m standing almost pressed up against a half-naked Walker.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, turning bright red. “Um, I was just helping Walker, I mean Lieutenant Walker, shave. His beard.” Oh God.
“I can see that,” my dad says, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips at me. “I just came looking for him because he missed his appointment time.”
“Sorry,” Walker says. “I didn’t know it was that late. José normally comes to get me.”
“Um,” I mumble. “I’m going to go now. Bye,” I say quickly to Walker, and then ease past my dad and rush out the door.
I know from the look on my dad’s face as he turns to watch me go that this won’t be the end of it.